


Hand Me Your Balls

by hopelessbookgeek



Category: Historical RPF, Julius Caesar - Shakespeare, Kitchen Nightmares RPF
Genre: M/M, Okay so this an AU and not an RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-26 03:52:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3835996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopelessbookgeek/pseuds/hopelessbookgeek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Renowned chef Julius Caesar calls on what he believes to be a failing restaurant run by handsome Marc Antony... but is all as it appears? Rating for language and bad puns. Shakespeare birthday gift for tumblr user icryyoumercy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hand Me Your Balls

**Author's Note:**

> The Marcus mentioned briefly is meant to be my most problematic of faves, Cicero, and the Cleo is, of course, Cleopatra.

Restaurants were supposed to be a place of comfort. From the most luxurious steakhouse to the sleekest diner, the prettiest bakery to the most relaxed sports bar, they were a place of love and laughter and happiness. People were engaged there or on their first dates, friends reconnected, job interviews were had, children celebrated birthdays. Restaurants were, usually, wonderful places.

And then sometimes they were failing potato cafes.

Failing so badly, in fact, that the owner of Rome’s Finest called in the best to help– Chef Julius Caesar, world-renowned master of the culinary arts. An imposing man despite his short stature, he could cow even the most stubborn and arrogant owners and remind them that yes, they did need his help– if they didn’t, they wouldn’t have called him in. And if the evaluation got the place some good press through the television show, well, that wasn’t such a bad thing either.

The waiter, when Caesar arrived, was a young man, so skinny and fine of feature that he looked younger. “Welcome, Chef, my name’s Augustus and I’ll be your server today. What can I start you off with?”

Caesar ordered a variety of dishes, everything from an Italian wedding soup to a fine steak– or, it was supposed to be. “Tough, overdone,” he remarked, poking at the piece of meat with his steak knife. “It’ll take me twenty-three tries to cut a piece off.”

“Is everything okay?” the boy Augustus asked. He was a friendly lad, attentive, clever, and very much hit the nail on the head when it came to problems with the restaurant.

“Ah, no, it’s all a bit… bland, overcooked. Just terrible. Is the owner around?”

“He’s in the back.”

“Could you get him for me?”

“He, uh, can’t come out right now. He’s our chef, so…”

Caesar raised an eyebrow. “Chef-owner? That’s not usually a good combination. Alright, I’m going to go have a chat.”

The owner was a man in his early forties, brown-haired and smiling in a way that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He introduced himself as Marc Antony “but just Antony is fine.”

“Antony, right, that meal was… disgusting.” _A sound bite, the producers would like that_. “The steak was tough, way overcooked, the potato skins were soggy and wet– were they microwaved?”

“No, Chef, they were not.” He had the boldness to lie right to his face, that was impressive. That took balls of brass.

“Right. See, now, that’s a lie. I could _taste_ it, like it was piping hot around the edges but the middle was still cold. Why are you lying to me?” There was that tone, he could hear it in his own voice, the soft one that demanded the listener to sit up straight and pay attention or they were in for the asskicking of a lifetime.

“I’m not lying, Chef,” he said, and there it was, the touch of a smirk on his lips, the languor in the heavy lid of his brown eyes that said _I don’t have to care, I’m too good for this_.

“Don’t bullshit me, yeah? I don’t like it. I’m not here to blow smoke up your ass. The soup was bland, it was all bland– what do you season the steak with?”

“Salt and pepper.”

“Did you just forget my piece? Are you allergic to salt?”

“No, Chef.” There it was, the drop of his eyes, the tilt to his shoulders, the arrogance was coming with a heady dose of humility too, the stillness of his mouth and hands betraying deference. There was a skill to reading body language and Caesar had possessed it from childhood, and knowing how to read people and knowing what is sincere and what is not allowed him to argue the bullshit out of anyone. Being likeable was one thing; being _the best_ was entirely another.

“Right. Well, I’m going to go get some fresh air, I’ll be back tonight to observe the dinner service. I’m _starving_.” He took the afternoon to, indeed, get something to eat, as well as speak to Antony’s girlfriend, a pretty woman called Cleo, who explained their situation, and it was not with much hope that he returned to the place for the dinner service.

Predictably, it was a disaster in all the usual ways. The food took forever to leave the kitchen, and when it did, it came back a lot quicker. Antony was a surprisingly good delegator but fought a lot with a sous chef called Marcus, an older man with a sharp tongue and no respect for Antony. It was carelessness more than talentlessness or anything else that made this kitchen fail, so when the night was finally over and everyone else went home, Caesar pulled Antony aside. “Let me show you a few simple dishes for tomorrow, yeah?”

Antony, who had grease on his shirt and more on his forehead from where he’d wiped the sweat away with the back of his hand, nodded, and Caesar turned to the cameras. “You can go home for the night, guys, we’ll go over this all again tomorrow.” They weren’t happy about it, but hey, he was in charge here, so they packed up and then it was just Caesar and Antony in the tiny, well-scrubbed kitchen (a surprise; he was so used to filth at times like this).

The dish was a simple tortellini and pesto one, with homemade pasta. Working with Antony turned out to be quite a bit of fun, despite his obvious exhaustion from dinner service, and Caesar began to suspect that his arrogance was only something of a coping mechanism when he didn’t know how to handle disapproval. He was actually quite funny, light-hearted and quick-witted, even if his jokes were filthy most of the time. He proved that when he had the time and confidence, he could make a stupendous meatball– and heartily laughed at as many ‘ball’ jokes as he was able to make in the time they took to cook.

“You’re a talented chef,” Caesar conceded when his chef’s jacket was streaked with flour and there was a plate of tortellini half-finished in front of him. “I don’t know why your restaurant is exactly failing.”

“Oh, it isn’t,” Antony said with the breeziness of a man discussing the weather. He took a bite of his own pasta and laughed to see the look of shock on Caesar’s face. “I mean, the name could use a change and the décor could be nicer and the menu is in the process of a revamp, but everything’s going great.”

“Your girlfriend said–”

“She’s not really my girlfriend. She lives in my building and wanted to make a cool fifty bucks.”

“Augustus–”

Antony made a face. “He did it for free. We don’t really… get along, so he just wanted the opportunity to badmouth me.”

“Why would you–”

“Go through all this trouble?” He shrugged. “I just cooked a meal for a world-class chef, proved that I’ve got chops– and balls– and, well, I always thought you were… kinda hot. People have lied for a lot less.”

Caesar took a minute to rub his temples. “I came all the way out here so that… You could hit on me?”

“Did it work?”

He cocked his head. Antony was younger than him by at least a decade, but otherwise comely, bright-eyed and grinning. He gestured towards the pan of meatballs sitting on the stove. “How about you get me another taste of your balls and we’ll decide from there.”

Antony’s laugh was loud and the sweetest sound he’d heard in years.


End file.
